Fairy Rings
by Tearoom Saloon
Summary: "I didn't ask to become what I am! I didn't want to end up like this, not being able to think straight, not being able to look at you without wanting to...to..." she trailed off, sliding to the floor. "I'm sorry, I really am. My head's all muddled and I'm not sure what's real anymore."
1. Meet John Watson

**Fairy Rings**

**Mythology/Fairytale Alternate Universe**

**Genres:** Fantasy, Supernatural, Mystery, later Romance, some elements of Horror and Adventure

**Rated T for:** Gore, subject matter (murder, death, etc), sexual content, and eating habits of multiple characters

It's not a nice fairy story

_All glory and power to the Mofftiss_

* * *

Sergeant Sally Donovan uncovered the tarp from the body, torch in hand. It was raining and the body had been dumped carelessly outside in the middle of a garden. No one had seen it, of course. None of the passerby would have noticed, anyway. It was invisible to the world, as it should have been.

"It's a child, a girl," she said softly, carefully moving the long blonde hair off the face. Young, not yet twelve. They were disgusting, the monsters who did this to children. Unforgivable. "She's an elf, northern born."

"Are you sure?" Detective Inspector Lestrade hovered at her elbow.

"Of course I'm sure. It's my job to be sure. She's got blonde hair, only characteristic of the northern elves, which means she's likely to have family looking for her."

"Do you see any wounds?"

She shook her head. "None from this angle."

"Bag her," the inspector said, turning to his team. "We can't have the body sitting out in the rain forever. We've been here long enough as is; it'll start to look suspicious. Bunch of police officers all crowded around a tree." He turned back to his sergeant, sighing. "Third one now with no sign of injury this week. I think we need to—"

"Don't say it."

"We're falling behind."

"We don't need him."

Lestrade gave her a look. "We need his help. I'm about to go into a press conference with no _clue_ what's happening, which is going to make the whole unit look silly."

"But he's—"

"But he's what?"

"I—" she growled, frustrated. "I can't _see_ him."

"Neither can I!"

"But it's not your _job_ to. We've had this discussion. He wraps himself in so many layers I can't see what he looks like, and it's my _job_, my _specialty_ to tell people apart and I can't even catch the slightest _glimpse_ of him! Have you ever stopped to think that he's not one of us?"

"I have, and I've discarded that idea. He's one of us, and we need his help."

Donovan sighed. "I won't play nice."

"That's okay, you never play nice."

* * *

John Watson looked out the window of his tiny flat. It was raining again. It was always raining. The only thing consistent since he'd come back from the war was the rain—okay, that was a lie, two things, but he didn't like to think of the second. The rain _poured_ down, running off the gutters up above, streaming down the walls, trickling across the glass. He watched as the drops snaked slowly before catching another drop, then another, another, and bolting down and to the ground. He flicked his eyes from the droplets to the people outside. Wandering around in the downpour, scurrying from awning to awning, umbrellas crowding the sidewalk, bustling in the inclement weather.

He sighed and turned back to his small space, eyeing the umbrella at his door. He had to leave now, or he'd be late for therapy. _Hah!_ Therapy. If the guys back East knew he had to see a therapist—they would _flip_. The jokes would never end. It wasn't his fault. It was mandatory for everyone shipped home in his condition.

"How have you been feeling, John?"

She had a little notepad out and everything, waiting to record any progress he'd made, maybe to try to decipher the inner workings of his mind, which he could tell you were three emotions: anger, frustration, and fear.

"Better, worse, the same. It's only been a week since we've spoken."

"And you see me every week, so I expect some progress as the months pass." She crossed her legs. "Does your leg still bother you?"

He nodded. "Every morning, and especially when it rains."

"Must be an awful day, then."

"Not awful."

She raised an eyebrow. "Progress?"

"Acclamation, I think."

There was a nod and scribble in the pad. "Can you recall anything more than last week?"

John shook his head and closed his eyes. No, he couldn't remember anything else. It was dark, there was a noise, he went to check it out, next thing he knew he was being carried, blood dribbling everywhere.

The appointment didn't last long after that. He ended his outing the same way he ended it every Wednesday; alone in a pub. A beer, as per usual, and chips for once. Might as well, it was a rainy day and there were few pick-me-ups he had left.

"John Watson?"

He looked up at the sound of his name and found himself facing an old friend from medical school. "Mike. It's good to see you."

"Heard you'd been off to war, what happened?"

He took a drink from his pint. "Got injured."

"Bloody mess, that. Doing okay?"

"Yeah, better than when I first arrived."

"That's the spirit. So what are you doing in London with an army pension?"

"Struggling to get by."

"Have you spoken to Harry about it yet?"

"Nah. That would cause too much panic."

"Then I guess she'd be of no help. Have you considered going halves?"

John could laugh. "Who would consider sharing a flat with me?"

"Funny thing, you're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who was the first?"

* * *

"Molly! I need those test results!"

"Arsenic was negative!" called the woman from the other side of the lab.

"Belladonna?"

"Negative!"

"Cyanide?"

"Negative!"

"…Monkshood?"

"I got a hit!"

"Brilliant!" He stood, hurrying to her. She held a vial of liquid, the now-identified crushed remains of a monkshood plant. "I figured as much."

Her shoulders slumped. "If you figured, why did you have me run so many tests?"

"Safe to be sure, Molly."

She sighed. "_Sherlock_."

"What? It's _always_ best to be safe. Especially whom you do that around."

"Do what around?"

"You're staring at my neck again."

She swore and turned around, embarrassed. "I'm sorry. It's not me—I mean, I'm not good at controlling it yet."

He rolled his eyes. "_I'm aware_."

She spun around, cheeks bright red. "I've already apologized for that profusely; I'm not sure what else to say!"

"You don't have to say anything, it was just a reminder."

_"Unbelievable,"_ she hissed. "I'm going back downstairs to do my _job_. Do you need anything before I go?"

"Yes. Molly, would you like to get coffee?"

"Piss off, Sherlock."

She left, slamming the door behind her. He sucked in a breath. _That_ could have gone better. At least he got his results beforehand.

The door opened again and Molly stuck her head in. "I'm sorry about the temper. I've yet to acclimate to the hormone shift—"

"It's been well over three months."

"Well, you know what? We can't all be _born_ special, can we?" She groaned. "There I go again. Anyway, what was that about coffee?"

"Oh, nothing," he said, waving it away. "Just if you were going to fetch me a cup. Black—"

"Two sugars, unless by chance there's a sweet Brazilian roast, in which case you take it with light cream. I know. We've been working together for over a year. I've been your coffee girl for _months_."

"I—all right. Thank you, Molly."

"No problem," she said with a loud sigh, exiting the lab.

_That really could have gone better._

That wasn't what he wanted at all. Molly had been so much easier to deal with before the accident. _So_ much. He missed timid, shy, quiet Molly…to an extent. New Molly was…well. More exciting, for the lack of a better word.

The door creaked open for a second time a quarter of an hour later.

"Molly, it's really—" Sherlock looked up at the faces of Mike Stamford and an unfamiliar man.

Not Molly.

Mike had gone out to lunch and brought back an old acquaintance. Mid to late thirties—

"Bit different from my day," the man said, looking about the room.

—_medical school_ acquaintance. Ah, _this would be fun._

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? I've no signal on mine."

He padded down his pockets. "Sorry, I've left it in my coat."

"Here, take mine."

The other man handed him a simple touch-screen phone.

"Old friend of mine, John Watson."

Sherlock thanked him and raised an eyebrow, quickly inspecting the device before shooting a text to a client. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. How did you—"

The door swung open and Molly came striding in with a blue ceramic mug. "You're in luck, they had Brazilian," she said, handing him the coffee. "That's the last run I'm making for you today."

"Thank you, Molly." He wasn't going to mention the new lack of lipstick—she'd snap. Not the best display before a potential flatmate. She rolled her eyes and left as quietly as she'd arrived.

"Gotten a bit touchy, has she?" Mike asked.

"You have no idea," he admitted, taking a long draught of his coffee.

The rest was explained quickly, as he had an urgent appointment. He played the violin, kept odd hours on cases, could go for days without speaking. He had easily seen the nature of John's limp. He gave the address of the flat in question and finally introduced himself as Sherlock Holmes before skating out the door and down the hall.

"Been away from home long, little brother. Mummy's worried sick about you."

Sherlock stopped mid-stride at the voice. He swung around, eyes already narrowed. "I'm running late, Mycroft."

"For nothing of great importance." His brother caught up to him easily. If he hadn't known better, Sherlock would have called his stride predatory. "You should really make an appearance soon. The Court isn't too happy one of its high-borns keeps dodging sessions."

"They're at the worst times. You know how hectic my schedule gets."

"And you know how unforgiving mine is, but I _always_ show my face. Because I—"

"Make an effort. Whereas I do not because it's a total waste of my time."

"If Mummy knew you said that—"

"You tell her and so help me I'll—"

"You'll what?"

Sherlock growled and increased his pace. "I don't have time!"

"I'll send your regards," Mycroft said, stepping into the shadows.

* * *

"You are late."

Sherlock stared at the ground, kneeling before the speaker. "I apologize."

"You may stand."

Large black eyes surveyed him on pale gold-speckled faces. Golden hair flowed down the throne, pooling around the stone base like a liquid flax pond. The one in the middle did not bear a name, addressed only as The High One, with an unknown sex and ambiguous features.

Sherlock rose, examining his surroundings. The world had changed as soon as he stepped onto the tumulus, the light growing warmer and the rain ceasing. Trees sprouted on the previously misty moorland. Sunlight filtered through the branches, thick and glowing like a wedding band. The High One sat in a stone throne in the decaying ruins of a castle. The ceiling was felled and vines crept and slithered on what remained of the stony walls. It was hard to believe he was on top of a necropolis.

"What have you brought for us today, Sherlock son of Titus?"

"I have recovered a token, High One."

The High One's coal eyes grew wider as he retrieved a cloth-wrapped object from inside his jacket. He unraveled it partially, careful not to touch the stone. It was just a fraction, just the eyes of the carved beast. He handed it to the one on the side who bore a large purple scepter.

"You have brought me the eyes of Black Shuck, Sherlock son of Titus. Where is the rest of the beast?"

"Scattered, High One. The beast is in pieces."

"I want all the pieces so I may bury them deep below the earth. The beast must be banished from walking the world of the living and the in-between."

"I understand, High One."

"Report to me when you have found the next piece. I dismiss you."

The scepter pounded the stone-slab floor and the forest was sucked away.

He stood, once again alone on the foggy moor.

* * *

**A/N: **Hello yes welcome thank you for reading.

So the name for the story sounds so much fluffier than the story actually is.

It's dark.

The fairies are not nice.

Words of the day are **necropolis**, which is a city of the dead, and **tumulus**, which is a burial mound.

It'd be **_really_** super sweet if I could get some feedback on any aspect of this, including character portrayals (okay yes I get it Molly's acting weird that's on purpose and for a good reason), plot, writing structure, voice, tone, whatever. Feel free to pick apart grammar, spelling, plot holes, inconsistencies, et cetera as the story moves forward.


	2. A Predator in the Dark

Molly peered into her microscope, frowning. She wasn't sure what she was looking for—he was never one for detailed instructions, Sherlock Holmes. He mumbled something about particle matter and unidentified spores and sat down on the other side of the lab in front of a spread of papers and samples, all marked up in his spidery pen. She raised her head to study him. He looked exhausted from where she sat, slumped over with a hand on his cheek to support that massive brain. Poor Sherlock, always on the case.

"Do you want me to get you some coffee?" she asked, breaking the infinite silence.

He didn't seem to hear, flipping over another page of data.

"Sherlock."

His head perked up to the sound of his name, but there was a distinct sluggishness about him. "What?"

"Do you want me to get you something caffeinated? Coffee or tea or dark chocolate or anything?"

He stared at her a moment before shaking his head. "You don't have to."

"Well I am, dammit, so what'll it be?"

He chewed his lip, looking down again to study his papers. "Is the little coffee house down the block still open now?"

"Yeah, they don't close until two."

"Grab your coat, I'm paying."

Molly blinked, nodding slowly. He must have been _really_ tired. They had become friends after the second accident, but things were still tense between them. She felt awkward, he felt awkward, their conversations were disjointed and sarcastic more often than not (which was her fault because of the constant mood swings and shorter temper). Some days she wanted to slap him, hard. Others, kiss his cheeks for his brilliance. But most of the time, she just wanted to stay on even ground, having caused him to go to so much trouble for her after the first accident and to go through so much physical pain after the second. She wasn't convinced he was fully healed.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, tying his scarf around his neck. "I can slip downstairs for—"

"I'm fine, that's not necessary."

She wasn't fine. She was starving, but the whole process still made her squeamish. A woman who worked with corpses all day couldn't stomach the thought of ingesting blood. How inconvenient.

"You're pale," he said as she tugged off her lab coat, studying her features intently. "When did you last eat?"

"A few hours ago. I had dinner out with friends."

"Low iron content?"

"Probably?"

"And you last _ate_-ate when?"

"Last night, I think. Maybe two lunches ago."

He sighed. "Molly, you have to keep track of these things. Your body isn't going to process nutrients from food the same way anymore. Your production of digestive enzymes was altered almost immediately after the fever period."

"Please don't remind me about the fever."

"The fever should remind you that you need to eat. It can come back if you don't."

"Now you're just teasing me," she said with a sigh, holding the door open for him.

"I'm not positive on what happens if you don't eat, but I theorize you'd begin to wither and your body would fight itself, since the new system would be fighting the old one—it's still there, which is why you don't get sick from human food. Panic, sweats, delirium, an insatiable hunger for blood, mania, periods of amnesia—"

"I get it, I'll eat something."

"I've never seen a vampire so unwilling to eat before. Usually they crave it more than they can control, but you, you're different, Molly."

"I did screw up, you know. Horrendously."

"I was expecting that, to be perfectly honest. Your instincts would be stronger in regard to me."

"What about _your _digestive system?" she asked as they left St. Bart's. "Do you have a new system fighting an old?"

"Nope."

She raised an eyebrow. "Do you even eat?"

"Of course I do."

"I've never seen you do it, only inhale gallons of coffee."

He chuckled. "It's not polite for me to eat in public."

"Worse than me?"

"Oh, easily. Maybe ten times worse. Would cause mass hysteria, riots in the streets, demand for my cold corpse; you know, the usual monster stuff."

"How could anything be worse than _blood_?"

He looked at her, grinning. "Poor Molly, still so unknowledgeable about the new world around her. If only she would listen to Sherlock—"

"Hey!" she gave him a light shove, giggling. "Not my fault you're my _only_ exposure to it all. I know no one else, I hope you realize."

"Oh, I realize. That's why you're stuck with me." He smirked and she laughed again. "I notice you've a milder temper at night."

"I guess," she said with a nod. "My circadian rhythm was thrown off due to the whole thing, so I desperately want to sleep at any time before six in the evening, so I'm cranky in the day."

"You're supposed to be nocturnal now, so it makes sense. Though why you're nocturnal is beyond me."

"People are less wary at night?" she asked with a shrug.

He laughed. "No, not at all, not at _all_ years ago. People were more careful at night; that's when the beasts of the jungles could sneak up on them."

"Then I don't know, Sherlock. I haven't been involved in this world for that long. I've thought vampires were fairy stories until a few months ago, and even then I thought I was having some horrible dream."

"Right, but I don't even—" he reached for the door to the café and hissed, pulling his arm back. "You have to open it."

"What?"

"I've forgotten my gloves and can't touch that, you have to open the door."

Molly glanced over at Sherlock, who was now clutching at something around his neck tightly. "Oh…kay?" She didn't see what the big deal was; it was only a door.

The café was warm inside, with the strong smell of coffee beans. Doctors and nurses on break were scattered around the intimate space. Everyone could attest that the canteen served water masquerading as coffee. Sherlock insisted Molly get a table as he ordered. She wanted a French vanilla caffè latte. _Nothing else, no, no biscotti. No, Sherlock, stop insisting._

She picked out a secluded table in the back and slunk into one of the armchairs, tired and hungry. She'd been up almost twenty-four hours now, and constantly being on her feet was not helping her cause. Sherlock was right; she did need to eat, otherwise she'd get rundown and catch a cold. Could she still catch a cold?

Sherlock reappeared sometime later with two steaming mugs. He placed the light brown one in front of her and sat down gracefully. He eyed her, curious, as she cradled the mug in her lap. "You're more exhausted than I."

"Maybe I am."

"You need to eat."

"I get that now."

"Otherwise you'll just stay tired, even after sleeping."

"I understand."

"Please don't fall asleep in your coffee."

Molly glanced up at him, a smirk threatening to take over her face. "I promise I won't." She put the mug back on the table and stretched, "So is that man you were in the lab with going to be your new flatmate?"

"…Mike?"

"Not Mike, the other one. Kind of short, had a cane."

"Oh…Watson, it was. John Watson. Yes, with the right amount of luck."

"Is he one of us?"

Sherlock laughed. "Of course he's one of us. I wouldn't be able to get away living with a _human_. They'd notice something was wrong."

"Especially your secretive diet."

"I'm just not sure what kind he is, though?"

"Really? The Great Sherlock Holmes is unsure of something?" she teased, taking a sip of her coffee. "I think I'm going to head home in a half hour."

He frowned. "When does your shift end?"

"Before dinner."

"You've—you came back only because I asked? Christ, Molly, I thought you were working!"

"Of course I came back. That's what friends do, right? We help each other out. Which means you can run my tests when you next pop in."

"Fine," he said with a scowl, taking a large swig of his Brazilian roast. "I'm taking you home, though."

"I can take the Tube. I'm a big girl now.

"I know that. I'm more worried about the patrons around you."

* * *

John met Sherlock Holmes outside the proposed flat the next morning. It was in a nicer area—how on _earth_ was he going to afford this on an army pension?

"I have a deal with the landlady, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock explained upon questioning. "Her husband got himself sentenced to death while in Florida a few years back. I was able to help her out."

"You stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh no, I ensured it."

The door opened on a small, pixie-haired woman he assumed to be Mrs. Hudson, confirmed when Sherlock reached out to hug her. "Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson," he said, introducing the two as they stepped inside.

Their flat was the first one up the stairs through the dark brown wood door. It was a decent size, especially for a discounted price. The living room made up the entire first half of the flat, filling into a full kitchen. There looked to be a hall that led further back next to the fridge, no doubt to bedrooms.

"Well could be very nice," John muttered, looking about the first room. It was messy, with stacks of boxes lying in all corners. "Very nice indeed."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, looking into the kitchen. "Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely."

"As soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out—"

"—So I went straight ahead and moved in."

"Oh. So this is all—"

"—Well, obviously I can straighten things up a bit."

Sherlock rushed about the room, throwing papers back into boxes of files, readjusting books, securing a document to the mantel frame with a knife.

"That's a skull."

"Friend of mine," Sherlock said with a slight smile.

"What do you think then, Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson asked, appearing in the room. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

_Scratch that, _one _bedroom beyond the fridge_. "Of course we'll be needing two," he said, confused.

"Oh don't worry, we've got all sorts around here," she said with a wink.

John felt a sudden unease sink in around him, but he couldn't piece together the feeling fully. It felt as if they were both looking at him expectantly, each trying to coerce out of him an answer to an unasked question. Each question was different; he could tell by the looks in their eyes.

Mrs. Hudson stopped asking her question to venture into the kitchen. "Sherlock, the mess you've made!"

"I looked you up on the internet last night," he said, sitting down in one of the armchairs.

"Anything interesting?"

"I found your website, the Science of Deduction."

His smile picked up. "What did you think?"

John cast him a dubious glance and Sherlock's smile fell. "You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

"Yes. And I could read your military career in your face and your leg, your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone, and your dog on your clothes and the bags under your eyes."

"But I don't have a dog."

The grin spreading across Sherlock's face was nothing short of predatory. "Don't you?"

"What about these murders, then, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked, returning from the warzone of a kitchen. "I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

John turned to Mrs. Hudson, confused again. Three murders? He hadn't heard about that at all, especially not in the paper, though the paper she was holding looked like no publication he'd seen before. Surely, this would have made headline news?

"Four," Sherlock corrected, approaching the window. "There's been a fourth. There's something different this time."

"Fourth?"

There was a lumbering up the stairs and a man slightly taller than himself entered the flat. He was in a black coat, with greying hair and a tired look on his face.

Sherlock turned to the guest. "Where?"

"Kensington Garden, Hyde Park."

"What's new about this one?"

"You know how none of them have had any sign of death apart from _being_ dead?"

"Yeah."

"Well, this one does, and it checks out with the others. Will you come?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, perhaps not seeing the same connection as the clearly-police-officer did. "Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson."

He sneered. "Anderson won't work with me."

"Well he won't be your assistant."

"I _need_ an assistant."

_"Will you come?"_

John watched as he struggled with his dislike of the person called Anderson and fascination with the prospect of seeing this body. "Not in the police car, I'll be right behind."

"Thank you," the unintroduced officer said and bowed out, making his way back to his car to start the hunt.

Sherlock jumped in pent-up jubilation after the man had disappeared down the steps. John watched as he scurried about, rambling to the landlady with a cheerful look about his person. _Who could _possibly _be this happy about murders?_ John thought as his new flatmate gathered up his coat and scarf, lightly dictating demands for the evening. What had he gotten himself into?

"Look at him rushing about," Mrs. Hudson said fondly after Sherlock Holmes had dashed out the door, thundering down the steps. "My husband was the same. You're more of the sitting down type, I can tell. I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg."

_"Damn my leg!"_ John burst, realizing how _dull_ was the choice to stay behind. "Sorry, I'm so sorry. Just sometimes, this bloody thing," he said with a false smile, punctuating his sentence with a tap of his cane.

"I understand dear, I've got a hip."

John unfolded the newspaper she had left on the table, studying the front page. There, in large letters, was the title of a story covering the three murders. He could swear the pictures moved as he scanned the page over for information.

"You're a doctor." John looked up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, pulling on a set of crisp black leather gloves. "In fact, you're an army doctor."

"Yes," he confirmed, standing.

"Any good?"

"Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths," he said slowly, pacing forward.

"Yes."

"Bit of trouble, too."

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much."

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh, god yes."

Sherlock turned on his heel, heading out the door, John on his tail. "Scratch dinner," Sherlock called as they vanished down the stairs. "The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!"

* * *

The Garden was dark and swarmed with torch lights and dogs. It was proving to be no trouble finding their way from the street to the crime scene. The man who had come up to request Sherlock's help was called Detective Inspector Lestrade, head of a special division of Scotland Yard, a division John hadn't heard of before tonight.

"Did I get everything right?" Sherlock asked in reference to his deductions on the ride over.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have. Harry and Clara split up. Three months ago, they're getting a divorce. Harry is a drinker."

"Spot on then, I didn't expect to be right about everything," he said with a smug smile as they crossed the greens.

"Harry's short for Harriet."

The detective stopped in his tracks. "Harry's your sister," he muttered, deadpan.

"What am I supposed to be doing here?"

"_Sister!_"

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"

"Always something!"

He shut up the rest of the way across the grass and to the edge of the wooded area, not answering John's questions.

"Hello freak," a woman greeted sourly at the police tape.

"I'm here to see Inspector Lestrade."

"Why?"

"I was invited," Sherlock said with a distinct edge in his tone.

_"Why?"_

"I _think_ he wants me to take a look."

"Well you know what I think?"

"As always, Sally." He gave her a once over, eyes narrowing as he ducked under the tape. "And I know you didn't get to sleep last night."

The woman called Sally snarled and put a hand out to stop John from following. "I see you've got a new dog, freak. He even wears tags, how cute." She studied him, eyes flicking across John's features. "Where's his leash?"

John blinked. "Leash? Why do I need a leash?"

"All dogs need leashes."

Sherlock made a growling noise. "He's a _colleague_ of mine, Dr. John Watson. John, this is Sgt. Sally Donovan."

Sergeant Donovan smirked, turning her malice back to Sherlock. "A colleague. Could have sworn he was your new pet."

"No need for name calling. John, are you coming?"

He sighed, exasperated, following Sherlock under the tape. The Sergeant radioed her boss, leading them deeper into the woods. A cluster of lights was roped tightly around each of the trees, guiding the crooked path down to the crime scene. The deeper they went, the less John felt comfortable. The wooded area seemed to swallow up the sky and was impossibly large, with dense foliage and massive, dark oaks and maples and elms that looks as if they had been standing for hundreds of years prior.

"Why was she calling me a dog?" John asked as they crossed a brook (he was fairly certain there was no brook in this part of the Park).

"Because you are, John, aren't you? Not a dog, but of the canis genus, _canis lupus sapiens,_ 'The Wise Wolf', or as the medieval German name calls you, a 'Man-Wolf', from 'wer', meaning an adult male, and 'wulf', German for wolf. Tell me, John, how do you fare on the full moon?"

He stopped walking, staying perfectly still, mouth agape.

Sherlock smiled. "Oh yes, I've noticed your little secret. You layer it well but not well enough for some eyes, not nearly enough for mine. Can't say I would have asked you to look at a flat if you weren't one of us, my habits alone would scare off any normal person."

Images starting rushing forth. He'd been caught, _he'd been caught_. Someone had noticed, had figured it out. What happened when the moon rose, full as a flooded well. This man, this man who called himself Sherlock Holmes, had seen as though he were looking out a window on a clear day.

He snapped back to reality, finding his voice again. "How could you _possibly_ know that?"

"The constant slight dilation of your pupils, the few times I whispered across the room and you heard me clearly. The way you surveyed new locations was predatory and nervous at the same time, so you're new to this world, probably came home different. The fact that you had a therapist but have no signs of PTSD, though you do have a psychosomatic limp, probably from the bite. It was a bite, wasn't it? And not to mention your scent."

"My _scent?_"

"Your pheromones have changed since you became infected; they're muskier, more attractive to a potential mate, more _feral_. You're almost invisible to the rest of us. Sally saw you because she's a Druid and it's her specialty. Something to do with energy and smells."

"And you? Are you a Druid as well?" _What even was a Druid?_

"I am no Druid. I merely observe."

"And you're—"

"One of you? I'm part of this underground you've been thrust into, yes, but I'm not a _wolf_ like you, John, not a Druid like Sally, or even a Grim like Lestrade. But as much as they detest it, I belong to this world."

"Aren't you going to tell me what you are?"

"Later, perhaps."

John dared to look Sherlock in the face. His blue-green eyes were dark, rimmed with an inhuman brightness that lit up even in the dim forest. They glowed, sending shivers up his spine, eliciting the impulse to _run_, to get far away from the man in the thick black coat with the ravenous smile that exposed edged teeth.

This man was a predator, sinewy and nimble. The slightest scent of him on the breeze caused the back of John's neck to prickle.

The darkness of the night felt unsafe.

* * *

**A/N:** oh my god sticking to the episode is SO BORING I'm diverging after this chapter, promise.

Sherlock's a secret.

If you read carefully, you can tell what he is (I gave you a _big_ hint last chapter), but he's a secret. Shh.

As usual, reviews are awesome, correct my grammar, and let me know if I'm using the wrong word or spelling something wrong.

**To M, my only guest review:**

Thank you! It's actually a lot as the show, and I'm tearing my hair out. I do hope you enjoy this chapter.

* * *

Okay y'all need some assistance because Sherlock's species is a guessing game and everyone thinks he's a vampire.

False. He refers to vampires as 'they' when talking to Molly. Also, Molly has directly injured him because of what he is.

What I've revealed (anything bold is relevant to the classical description):

**His species is malicious**, his diet is worse than Molly's (currently the only vampire), **he and Mycroft belong to a Court**, Molly's species preys on his, **he's allergic to/repelled by something in door handles.**

**Good Luck.**


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